


The Prince and the Heiress BVDN August 2019

by rockykelboa



Series: Cut From The Team [2]
Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Depression, Emo, Emo Vegeta, F/M, Sex Drugs and Rock and Roll, Social Anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 03:42:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20383102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rockykelboa/pseuds/rockykelboa
Summary: The August 2019 Mature BVDN theme was music, so I wrote a little piece from the timeframe inCut from the Teamwhere Vegeta and Bulma's relationship is relatively good, a part of the story I think is lacking—the blissful month where he was Mr. Sober October, (it was mid Sept-Oct, technically). One day I plan to go back and rework the early chapters, maybe add some real smut instead of running from it, but for now, a teaser? Which is still a 'running from smut' teaser?Anywhoo, these were the prompts:FretKeyCrescendoTempoAmplifyComposeAnd this was the cutest art from my favorite artgull: BianWW





	The Prince and the Heiress BVDN August 2019

Bulma moaned when the key she turned in the knob was met with zero resistance. The door was already unlocked, which meant Chi-Chi was home, again, probably throwing herself a pity party complete with the kinds of processed frozen snacks she knew Vegeta would sniff out to join her. How Chi-Chi let one breakup degrade her into eating half a bag of pizza rolls with someone she claimed to hate less than a week ago was absurd on so many levels that Bulma sometimes wondered if her new boyfriend and her roommate weren’t hooking up behind her back. There was no way Chi-Chi could pull off that kind of one-eighty without some kind of incentive. 

Her roommate was laid across the couch in her pajamas watching Seinfeld reruns, a bag of Doritos hugged under her arm. 

“He still at practice?” Bumla asked. She tossed her backpack onto the kitchen island. 

Chi-Chi didn’t bother to peel her focus from the television. She stuffed a handful of chips into her maw and said through crunchy, smacking lips, “Nope. He never left.” Her roommate extended an orange, powdered finger toward Bulma’s closed bedroom door.

Both of them, it seemed, were worthless. But where Chi-Chi had an excuse, Vegeta didn’t—at least not one that she was aware of. Since they started dating, if that’s what it could really be called, he’d been so cryptic in every interaction, so resistant in every attempt she put forth to socialize with him outside of the apartment’s four walls that she was beginning to wonder if he was a recluse or depressed or both. 

Vegeta was still in bed where she’d left him that morning, the only difference in his appearance being the guitar in his lap. He hadn’t dressed nor even tossed the blankets that were pulled up to his waist. He pretended not to notice that she’d opened the door and continued the tune, his fingers scraping against the frets as he changed chords. 

“I thought you had practice.”

“Cancelled. Nappa had to work.”

“So?” Bulma asked. With the deadline they were up against, it didn’t make sense to postpone for one bandmate’s schedule.

“You ever tried to play with three guitars and no drummer? It’s the equivalent of a cock-fest with straight dudes. Nobody’s beating off.”

“That’s an image I can’t erase. Thank you.” Bulma said with a kind of sarcasm, and it was only her annoyance at spending one more night in this stuffy place he was so reluctant to leave that kept her pressing on, poking at him.

Vegeta’s lips managed to lift at one corner, which meant he was paying attention.

“Do you have plans tonight?” Bulma asked, knowing he didn’t and fully prepared for the suspicious lift of his brows as he told her otherwise. 

“Depends on what you want.”

“I want to go to a party. Off-campus, just down the block. But I don’t wanna go without you. Will you come?”

She threw herself onto the bed to disrupt the focus he honed on the only other thing that, besides Chi-Chi as of late, stole his attention from her. Bulma butted her head against his thigh and threw an arm across his legs that were buried beneath the comforter. 

“A college party? Hard pass.”

“What if I said I’d make it worth your while?” she asked, grinning up at him through teasing, batting lashes. That was the key. She gloated, watching his eyes slit shut and his fingers freeze over the strings as her hand skimmed up the blankets between his legs.

It didn’t take more than a few kneading motions before he’d thrown his head back against the pillows with the ring on his bottom lip tucked firmly behind his front teeth as he bit down. 

She let him savor the moment, feeling him over the top of the blanket, watching him pinch his eyes shut as he let go of his lip to moan. He shifted beneath her palm to widen his legs and pulled the guitar off his lap to let it lay off-kilter against his hip. 

He was the musician, yet she knew which chords to play, and she pulled the blanket down to expose him. She could feel his cock thickening up, pushing against the fabric of his boxer briefs. Getting him off wouldn’t be a challenge. She knew it the moment her hand slipped under the waistband of his shorts to grip him, twisting her palm up and down, listening to his moans crescendo with every stroke. His toes curled, and his legs pulled up as she increased the tempo. It was now or never. Her leverage only lasted as long as he did.

“So, have you decided?”

Vegeta peered down at her beneath his half-closed eyelids and croaked, “If I said no, would you stop?”

“Are you saying no?” Even if she could manage to get his word, it meant nothing, because he was far too cagey and clever to commit to anything that didn’t serve his own narrow interests. 

Herself, for example—they weren’t even technically dating. It’s not like he’d ever asked her out. They only made out twice and she invited him home, like he was some sad, shaggy puppy left out in the rain and she was a sap. 

“I haven’t decided,” he said, milking the hand job for all it was worth, biding his time. Even if she abandoned the act halfway through in a hissy fit, he’d probably just go and finish himself off in the shower.

“Yes or no, Vegeta.” Her movements slowed, more and more the longer he put off answering, until her hand was just wrapped around his cock like a gear stick she couldn’t decide whether to angry park and shut down, or shift into fourth or fifth, hop on and peel away, screaming.

“Maybe,” he said.

Park it. Fucker. 

Bulma yanked her hand from his shorts. Her once playful smile retracted to a stony glare that, when he only rolled his eyes, incensed her further to snap, “What the hell is wrong with you? Is it really so painful to spend one night out? It’s not like I’m asking you to cut off your fucking dick!”

Her vitriol was met with a half-hearted shrug, and he pulled the guitar back into his lap, as if he didn’t notice the stiff erection she’d meant to make him suffer. 

“I’ve been to a lot of parties in my life, Bulma. I’ve never met one that I’ve liked.”

“Maybe it’s ‘cause you’re a stupid, boring buzzkill,” she declared, cocking her head and crossing her arms to pout; though the fact that he took her declaration as a compliment, nodding with his lips pressed in smug acknowledgement only amplified her rage. Her eyes felt as if they’d pop from her skull with how hard she was glaring at him.

Yet even still, she couldn’t display the full extent of her frustration without feeling like a jackass. He was straightedge, and to turn him to the dark side, while it would improve their social lives, would only make her feel guilty. She didn’t want to be that kind of girl, the one that a guy broke edge for and hated, eventually, inevitably—as if she’d pulled the cloth on Santa Claus.

Bulma took a deep breath to compose herself, to imagine for a second or two what Vegeta’s world was really like, including and above all of the things Nappa had told her. He was a fucking jackass, like Nappa said, but not without cause. 

Being a famous guitarist that had been kicked out of his band and left to salvage what he could from Goku’s pathetic ensemble, for a guy with Vegeta’s ego, that couldn’t have been easy. And he was, since the moment they met, aloof to an extreme. She couldn't ask him to change. She could either accept the fact that her new not-boyfriend boyfriend was an odd, quiet and borderline crazy piece of work, or she could dump him. 

After Yamcha, she would perhaps be better at dumping a fool, not leaving the lines so ambiguously crossed that he’d drop by unannounced and expect the same privileges as when they were dating. But Vegeta wasn’t Yamcha. He wasn’t Goku, and he wasn’t anything she could pretend to fit inside a box. He was his own incredibly frustrating yet amazing, beautiful, talented, prophetic person that she hated only because it was hard to hate him. 

He was ignoring her now, his thick brows pinned and concentrated as his fingers threaded over strings like she wasn’t there. 

“Vegeta,” she prompted, intending to beg the jerk, but was cut short when he choked-off his last chord to snap.

“Woman, I have no interest in going to your party. I’d much rather spend the night with you.”


End file.
